


Fifty Shades of Flowers

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batfamily Feels, Birthday, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flowers, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: In this universe, flowering tattoos cover the bodies of nearly everyone who calls themselves a human. Events in their lives that have significance, be it grief, love, or anger--mark them forever. Bruce Wayne is no different. He's covered in flowers from nearly head to toe. Turning fifty, he's been through a lot but the one thing he hasn't done, is admit his love for Diana Prince. Maybe this year, he'll get his birthday wish and the two of them will finally share what they've always known.





	Fifty Shades of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I have to give HUGE props to the idea of the flowering tattoos and all their meanings to GravityWhatGravity who wrote an excellent piece called 'I Slithered Here From Eden'. It gave me the idea and inspiration to write this. I've tweaked quite a bit and changed the plot a lot, but the flowers, that's all theirs. 
> 
> I do not DC or its characters. Plot is mostly mine, with proper credit to GravityWhatGravity for a great idea.
> 
> Enjoy! Feel free to leave comments. They are the bread and butter of a writer :)

               Turning fifty didn’t have to mean anything.

                It was merely another number in a long line of numbers. Simply numerical.

                He looked at his reflection with raw emotion, eyes skittering and snagging over the scars and marks. Gaze tracing the lines of flowers that covered him from neck to ankle, in varying degrees. There was very little skin left to mark that hadn’t already been claimed.

                Bruce hadn’t really looked at himself in a long time. Too long he supposed.

                From his right knee, outer thigh then sprawling to his sixth rib, he was covered in yellowing marigolds for grief, sorrow, and despair. His parents. He couldn’t remember the feeling of heat or pain when they’d imprinted. He’d been too deeply shaken at the time. But had been later questioned as such a large imprint would have caused immense pain.

                Periwinkle, blue and gentle decorated his inner bicep and wrapped down an elbow, for Clark’s friendship. Strong, true, and steadfast.

                For Diana, a pink rose over his heart—friendship, grace, admiration. Beside it, a ranunculus for radiant charm. She knew of the first but not of the second. He did his best to keep both covered and out of view. They revealed too much how much she mean to him.

                His shins were decorated with Arbor Vitae and Glycine flowers—unchanging and agreeable friendship; for Hal, Barry, and John. For the many other friends he’d gained through the years, by no choice or deeds of his own, he wore Geranium and Acacia on his feet and ankles.

                Bruce remembered vividly the moss, cinquefoil, and wood sorrel that had been for him on his mother’s hands. She’d worried them with long elegant fingers when thinking of him. For his father, forget-me-nots that made bracelets on both wrists. When he’d kneeled over her body as the breath left her, he remembered the markings fading, the imprints disappearing into shadowed gray markings in death.

                At his parents funeral, Bruce remembered the stinging pain that had triggered the other half of the markings merging with the marigolds of grief on his chest and belly. Redbeckia and coltsfoot—justice shall be done to you.

                He touched the flowers now, tracing the line where the flowers merged over his belly button and his chest hollowed in pain at the remembrance.

                Though they were the most prominent markings he wore, Bruce tried to avoid thinking overlong on their existence, because the pain grew unbearable.

                Bruce’s eyes flitted closed and he pictured his back and shoulders where honeysuckle—loving affection, and sorrel—parental bonds—painted the scarred muscles. When Dick was home, he would brush the markings in passing, their connection recognized without words. Dick had made him a father and would always be special to him, treasured and loved. By the time Damian had come along, nearly all of Bruce’s back had been covered in the flowers of sorrel, like a cape intermingling with the honeysuckle.

                His eyes opened to slits and Bruce let them fall to the lily of the valley that dominated his breastbone. He never spoke of it. None of the boys did. But it had appeared the day he’d found out the identity of the Redhood. _Return to happiness._

Jason’s marigolds were delicately imprinted just beneath his right clavicle and could be seen if he wore a t-shirt.

                Bruce’s throat tightened painfully, pressing a palm to the flower, letting himself feel each emotion so clearly covering him. So many memories. So many feelings, all captured like a roadmap on his skin. Here, not a shred of clothing to hide beneath, there was no denying how much Bruce, how much the Batman, felt for others.

                It was part of the reason why he kept himself covered so well. At fifty, he was more covered than many of his other friends. He was human. Just a man. So, he felt more freely, loved more dangerously.

                It was why when Ivy—fidelity, marriage, and friendship—showed up on his left thigh after a mission off-world with Diana, Bruce had done his best to simply ignore it. Diana had no reason to see or even suspect that she had been the source of the Ivy and his feelings.

                But the forget-me-nots…those were harder to hide. Both physically and emotionally.

                God, Bruce wished he didn’t love her so deeply.

                Just like his mother, both wrists had become shackled in the flowers and ever since, he’d been forced to remain in long sleeves when in the company of others to prevent any unwanted questions. He was fifty goddamn years old, he didn’t need that sort of speculation. He knew he wasn’t getting any younger. He knew he was in the sunset years of his life as Batman and would be forced to retire within the next couple of years. His body simply wouldn’t allow it much longer.

                Bruce sighed, allowing himself one last lingering glance, his thoughts a muddled mess of love and self-pity.

                He had a party to get ready for. He couldn’t keep staring at his reflection like a ghost.

                Bruce wore an all-black suit, deciding on no tie with the top button undone. Only the hint of Jason’s yellow-orange marigolds could be seen at the v of the opening. It managed to look elegant and but still cover all the rest of his imprints. On days like today, he wished he could wear his armor to face the crowds and not simply flimsy cotton.

                Slipping into a comfortable smile, one practiced and easy, Bruce stalked out of his bedroom and took the stairs quickly to see his boys all ready at the landing. Even Jason stood presentable, a mocking half-grin marking his mouth.

                “Fashionably late, Master Bruce,” Alfred commented in his usual graceful reprimand, dark eyes flickering over Bruce. “You look remarkably well.”

                “Thank you, ready then?”

                He had addressed the boys, but they all wore similar expressions of thoughtful inquiry. Jason, slightly bored to cover the worry lining his brow. Dick, open affection with compassion lingering. Tim, curiosity and warmth, and Damian, all-knowing and pity. Each feeling different things, but all feeling them strongly. They were a family of emotions, if the varying expressions of imprints that decorated his bat family had anything to say about the matter.

                His boys were well covered at their reasonably young ages.

                “Are you alright?” Dick asked quietly as they filed into the Royce, everyone strangely subdued.

                “I’m fine.”

                “Something is wrong father,” Damian added lightly, straightening his collar. He wasn’t a boy anymore, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Bruce often found himself forgetting such. He still saw the wicked green eyes and the snappish grin. But the softness of youth was fast fading. Everyone grew up.

                He didn’t know why it made his chest ache to know that time was slipping by and quickly.

                Damian would take over the cowl in the next few years. Perhaps sooner.

                And Batman would live on, immortal through his legacy of sons.

                And their sons. Or daughters.

                “Birthdays aren’t always happy occasions,” Tim offered for Bruce, a sad smile twitching his mouth.

                “No,” Bruce agreed and didn’t say anything else until they reached the ballroom.

                Here, there was no room for melancholy or blistering thoughts. Here, the sound of music and dancing and laughter echoed happily; too happy for sorrow.

                Clark greeted him at the door, wrapping him tightly in a hug that took the air from his lungs. Bruce laughed, tension waning and joy flickering back into his chest. He’d needed this. To be with his friends and his family. To remind himself that growing older didn’t have to be something bad. It didn’t have to mean endings were near.

                “You don’t look a day over thirty.”

                “Liar,” Bruce laughed, brushing at the temples of his black hair where gray was showing. “I don’t care. It looks like a hell of a party.”

                “Barry is already so wired I think he’s going to freak when he sees the punch is spiked.”

                Bruce nodded at John and Dinah, raising a hand in greeting. Nearly all of the Justice League was in attendance and they mingled in effortlessly with the upper crust of Gotham. It took effort not to look for a tall brunette with chocolate eyes, but he managed.

                An hour into the affair and one glass of whiskey, Bruce had relaxed enough to really laugh and he was enjoying himself. Oliver and J’onn had been sharing battle stories, thinly veiled for present company, and they’d been commiserating over poor enemies.

                “Stupid criminals are a good thing J’onn,” Oliver grinned, downing his glass of punch.

                “I suppose. But occasionally, I like a challenge.”

                Bruce pursed his lips, “I can’t say I didn’t use to feel that way.”

                J’onn lifted a mocking brow, “Oh? And now old age has changed your mind?”

                Bruce laughed, “Hardly. Experience has taught me I get home in one piece a hell of a lot faster when they’re dumber.”

                “Amen to that.”

                He and Oliver clinked drinks in agreement.

                “Diana,” J’onn said smoothly, opening their small circle to admit the woman he’d already known was at his back. Bruce angled himself to offer her a welcoming smile, even as his chest ached and his pulse ratcheted with her presence. He subconsciously lowered his drink to prevent any accidental viewings of the forget-me-nots, scarcely hiding. He didn’t want to have that conversation tonight. Or any night.

                “Happy birthday Bruce.”

                “Thank you.”

                “I was hoping to steal you for a walk on the terrace. It’s warm in here and I could use some air.”

                J’onn and Oliver shared a careful look, stepping aside. “Of course.”

                Being outvoted, Bruce offered Diana his elbow, then followed her lead as she guided them to the gush of cool welcoming air. It had been warm in the ballroom and Bruce took a moment to simply breathe and cool his now feverish skin. It was tempting to roll his sleeves, remove the jacket and unbutton more buttons. But it simply wasn’t what Bruce did. He NEVER showed more skin than needed. Ever.

                To do so invited judgement and curiosity.

                Neither of which were welcome.

                “It is such a nice night,” Diana spoke softly, leaning onto the stone railing as she unwound from Bruce’s elbow. Bruce missed the contact immediately.

                “Yes.”

                “You seem distant tonight Bruce.”

                “Distant?” he mused, resting against the rail with his rump to face her opposite, rather than cozy up nearer. “It must be I’m just tired.”

                She straightened, closing a bit of distance, dark eyes surveying and seeing without permission. Though she rarely crossed the physical boundary between them, tonight, she reached forward and touched a thumb to the slight bags beneath his eyes. Bruce resisted the urge to sigh into the touch and take more.

                “You don’t look as tired as you’ve been before.”

                He laughed, pulling back for space he wanted but wouldn’t get. “I feel it. Believe me.”

                “Come now Bruce. You are young still.”

                He lifted a brow, “I’m fifty.”

                “Fifty years is not many.”

                “To you maybe. To me, I’ve already lived over half my life and my years as Batman are coming quickly to an end.”

                Diana stilled, expression suddenly stark beneath the gloss of moon, “You will retire soon?”

                “I can’t keep breaking things and not expect it to be permanent. It’s coming time for someone younger to take over. Damian will make an excellent Batman. God knows he’s waited long enough.”

                “You’re serious.”

                Bruce frowned at her, “Of course I am.”

                “Of course,” Diana said softly, eyes lingering on his, “Of course. You cannot be Batman forever. I understand.”

                But it didn’t sound like she did, and Bruce hated to disappoint. Hated to remind her that he was only human, and that age would catch up and eventually kill him. While she lived on.

                It was why he kept those Goddamn forget-me-nots to himself. Why he never took his shirt off if he could avoid it, because of the pink rose and the ranunculus that belonged solely to the woman who stood in front of him. He ached to tell her. To take her in his arms and kiss that mouth that should belong to him. But she wasn’t like him.

                “Diana…” he looked up at her, felt his eyes burn when her mouth softened and lifted at the corner. “I’m glad you came.”

                “I will always come.”

                He listened to the filtering romance of the cello that slipped from the windows and swallowed thickly when Diana simply watched him. Her thoughts had never been easy to decipher, but he felt more than saw that she wanted something from him tonight. And loath as he was to deny her, he knew he shouldn’t give it to her. Couldn’t without damaging them both.

                But he was also a glutton for punishment and always would be.

                “Care to dance?”

                Diana’s smile was radiant and gentle, “Yes.”

                She slipped closer, hands going where they should and fit perfectly against him. He said nothing when the waltz they began became muddied as her head nestled in his shoulder and he could smell her shampoo. He didn’t stop her when she nuzzled his neck and his breath went erratic with needs he had no business giving fuel to. But when she suddenly grabbed his right wrist and twisted it painfully in between them and the dreamy quality shattered, he stood blindsided and frozen in front of her.

                “Who?”

                He didn’t need to clarify what she meant. Her fingertips were on his racing pulse, touching the forget-me-nots that belonged to her. That even now rejoiced at her touch. She’d pushed his sleeve down and her eyes traced the blooms with heated rage, mouth thin.

                He’d never seen such a look on her face. Not ever.

                She’d never looked more beautiful.

                “I don’t want to talk about it.”

                Diana gave his arm a shake, tightening her hold on his wrist until it throbbed. He said nothing, merely locked eyes with her and waited. He was so close to simply telling her. So close to letting it slip from his lips, because what else could he do? It hadn’t been on purpose. He hadn’t mean to do it. To do something so foolish when he knew it was impossible. And unfair.

                Diana was an immortal goddess. He was a mortal broken man who had nothing to offer save a few years of his undying love and affection. That wasn’t a trade, it was a death sentence for them both.

                “Tell me.”

                “I—” Bruce hissed when she increased the pressure enough to feel it pop, “I can’t.”

                “You can,” Diana whispered, eyes suddenly darker and covered in wet tears that made Bruce’s throat so tight he didn’t know if he could speak without it breaking. “Please.”

                That one word, undid him.

                His eyes slipped closed and he took in shaky breath. The pressure on his wrist loosened and Bruce felt the burn of it still throb in his bones. “They showed up a few months ago.”

                “Selina?”

                She sounded resigned now. Heartbroken.

                It would be easier if she was right. So much easier. But he’d long ago stopped feeling anything save mild attraction and amusement from her. Wonder woman had taken everything else.

                “No.”

                Her eyes flashed to his and Bruce fought the urge to run.

                “You.”

                Diana swallowed, “Me?”

                “Diana—I—We can’t. I’m sorry--.”

                He was stopped so quickly, so abruptly that he made a strangled sound in his throat before a half-broken moan slipped out as her lips took his. Bruce could not have stopped his response even if he’d tried. Arms wrapped, fingers dragged over warm skin, mouths took and took and spoke without words. Diana pressed so tightly into him, he could swear their hearts swelled through skin and bone and found each other.

                After long earth-shattering moments, Bruce drew back and carefully put his hand over Diana’s heart to push her back. The organ was slamming wildly into his palm and Bruce reveled at the reaction he drove in her. As wanton and feverish as his own.

                “Do not say it.”

                Bruce ground his teeth, looking down at the gloss of his dress shoes. “We can’t Diana.”

                “Tell me why. And I shall shred every reason down for you.”

                He wished it were so easy. “I’m going to keep getting older. And you won’t.”

                “That doesn’t matter to me.”

                “And when I die in your arms and you look no different? Will you still not care that we fell in love with a man who give you no more than a handful of years?”

                Diana glared, grabbing the lapels of his jacket to jerk him to his toes, “Better those handful of years than none at all.”

                Bruce’s eyes burned, his skin warm and too tight. “And when I’m done with Batman? Will you still see me the same? Still want the softened graying man? Or have you thought of what that might look like?”

                “I’ve thought of it.”

                “I’m only going to get more surly with age Diana. In a few years, even you won’t want to be around me.”

                Diana shook him, hard enough to rattle his teeth, “Stop fighting what should not be fought. Look,” she reached for his tender wrist and this time pressed a delicate kiss to the flowers, unbuttoning the cuff to look her fill, “Look at these. They are enough. They will always be enough. Stop fighting.”

                “Diana--,” Bruce’s voice broke, a need gaping and dying to be filled. He was losing the will to fight her. Losing a battle he’d been waging for so long. And he was tired. “I don’t want to hold you down.”

                Diana pressed more kisses to his wrist, then his hand, then each finger, setting fire to the flesh beneath those lips. Bruce leaned into the touches, unable to stop himself from receiving such blissful comfort. “You would never hold me down.”

                “I would.”

                “No,” she argued, voice now a whisper as she pressed small kisses to his face, kissing freshly shaved cheeks, the turn of a sharp jaw, and a neck that couldn’t help but to arch for better access. The skin on his wrists heated unbearably, the marks on his chest that too called out to Diana made themselves known and Bruce heard himself make a soft broken sound of surrender.

                “I-I love you.”

                Diana smiled against his mouth, lazily kissing him now, all tension between them dissipating. “I love you too.”

                Bruce sighed into her, letting himself take this moment. Letting himself go.

                “Happy birthday Bruce.”

               

               

               

                 


End file.
